Tell Me A Story

One of the flaws of growing Old, I find, is that now that I’ve accumulated a few decades of wisdom, nobody wants any of it. I guess that’s valid; I wasn’t keen on taking advice from “my elders” either. 

To console myself, I look back on some of the things I’ve done well over my lifetime. One is teaching my children the power of story, of wrapping words around thoughts in a way others can see your meaning.

Husband and I taught our youngsters to tell stories from the time they could lisp soft words. Before they turned two, they could tell about their experiences. “Look, a duck!” is a fine story, and worth listening to. We pelted them with questions to help them sort their thoughts: what did it look/sound/feel/smell like, and then what happened, and what did you think about that, and what was the best part, and how did you feel when that happened? Asking them to tell their experiences caused them to be more attentive to details, while things they may have glossed over took on meaning. 

By the time they reached school age, they were proficient story-tellers. They clamored to tell about their day as soon as they came in the door, often tripping over their words (and those of their siblings) in their haste to tell their story. If they lagged, we’d prompt: what was the most interesting thing you noticed today, did you see any kindness, what was funny, what new thing did you learn today, did you imagine a different ending?

Their friends caught on fast; often, a playmate after school also lined up to tell their story, about that silly thing that happened on the playground, or the drawing their teacher sketched on the board; either a fish or a sock, they weren’t altogether sure. What did it look like, what color was it, why was that unusual, was that something you’d enjoy doing again?

 As a parent, I learned a lot by listening. If a daughter mentioned her new friend Jill every day for a week, then quit mentioning her, I knew to ask about Jill later on. If I noticed a story included a bully, a phone call was in order. If a child reported his teacher in tears, I’d walk the kid to school the next day, just to let the teacher know she wasn’t alone (and to apologize if my son was the tear-trigger; especially in first grade, he usually was).

As I age, I value stories more than ever. I see how helping our little ones learn to express themselves well helped them through their lives. It makes my day when a now-grown child calls and says, "Hey, Mom, want to hear what I did today?" I delight in seeing them teach my seven adorable grandchildren to tell stories, too. I’m a big believer in circles, and this one is powerful. Maybe getting Old allows me a wider vista. 

A Little Blue Bird

Once upon a time there was a boy who loved birds. While other three-year-old boys pretended to be firefighters and superheroes, this boy told everyone who would listen that he wanted to be an ornithologist.  And those who heard the little boy smiled because he used words that were almost as big as he was.

Whenever the boy wished for a bird of his own, his mother told him that they were too noisy, or too messy, or too expensive. Besides, they had a cat and a dog who would probably try to eat the bird. The boy understood, but he didn't stop dreaming.

One afternoon, a summer dust storm blasted the neighborhood where the boy lived. His mother watched the storm through the kitchen window while she washed dishes. When she turned her back to dry and put away a plate, she heard a "WHACK!" against the pane.

The boy heard the noise, too. He ran from the family room where he had been playing with the other children. "Mom! Another bird must've hit the window. We have to save it."

Mom stepped between the boy and the door to outside and knelt in front of him. "Son, it's probably just another pigeon. It will be okay."

"But Mom! We have to save it." The boy jumped up and down. "Please, Mom!"

"Okay. I'll go take a look. But you have to stay inside. Promise?"

"Yes, I promise. Hurry Mom. He might be hurt!"

The last thing Mom wanted to do that day was deal with a dead bird and the resulting tears of anguish that would ensue. She stood up and turned to go out the door. A flash of blue caught her attention. She threw open the door and scanned the patio. The wind caught the door and sneaked a swirl of dried leaves and desert dust across the threshold before Mom could push the door shut.

A bit of sand flew into Mom's eyes and blurred her vision. She looked down and blinked hard. When she opened her eyes again, she saw it - a little blue parakeet - what some people would call a budgerigar, or budgie for short. It fluttered its sky blue wings against the wind and sought refuge under a patio bench. Mom watched the little bird for a moment to see if it would fly away.

Inside the house, the boy jumped up and down. "Mom. Is it okay? Mom. Where is it? Mom. I want to see!"

The parakeet settled against the leg of the bench, ruffled its feathers out and tipped to one side. Mom took a slow step toward the bench. The bird didn't move. Mom reached down and touched the blue puff of feathers. Still no movement. Mom scooped the bird up with both hands. It fluttered a bit, then went still again. She could feel the rapid beat of its tiny heart in the palm of her hand.

"Mom! What is it?" The boy couldn't wait any longer. He threw the door open.

"Shhhh! Settle down. You don't want to scare this little guy. Look. It's not a pigeon after all. Do you know what kind of bird this is?" Mom stepped back into the house and motioned for the boy to close the door.

"A parakeet. It's a blue parakeet. Is he okay? Look, everyone. Mom caught a parakeet. Oh, can we keep him? Please? Oh, Please? We need to get a cage. Can we please go buy a cage?" The boy tried to whisper, but he could barely contain his excitement.

The other children gathered around Mom and the boy. A bird! The boy had wished for a bird and he got one. Everyone spoke at once.

"What will we name it?"

"Is it a boy bird or a girl bird?"

"Where did it come from?"

"What if its owners are looking for it?" At this question, everyone stopped to wait for Mom's answer.

"Well, I think we need to put up signs around the neighborhood and ask if anyone lost a bird."

The boy crossed his arms and the corners of his mouth turned down. "But I want to keep him. Finders keepers, losers weepers."

The boy's older sister handed Mom a small box with some paper towel wadded up in it. Mom set the bird in the box and looked into her son's eyes. "How would you feel if this was your bird and it got lost?"

The boy looked down.  A tear ran down the side of his nose and hung on the tip for a moment before it dripped onto the boy's tennis shoe. He looked back up at Mom with a determined look in his eye.
"Okay, but if no one calls us in a week, can we keep him?"

Mom ruffled the boy's hair. "Sure. But we have to give it a week. And I expect you to help take care of the bird."

"Yes! We have a bird. I knew we would get a bird. I just knew it." The boy high-fived his siblings and everyone chatted about making signs for the neighborhood and how and where they would get a cage for their new pet.

A week went by and no one claimed the little blue parakeet who flew in with the wind. The boy declared the bird to be named Gusty Sky - Sky for short. The family bought a cage and researched the types of food and how to care for Sky. One time, Sky got out of his cage - oh, yes, the bird specialist at the pet store declared Sky was a young male, but of undetermined age. The dog barked and chased the bird, wanting someone to play. The cat stalked the bird and was ready to make a meal of him, but Mom snatched the bird in the nick of time. Sky refused to be taken out of his cage after that.

The boy grew. He started school. The family moved to another state and the bird went with them. He even spent a summer in a tent trailer with the family of the boy and that crazy, stalker cat. A couple of times the family found the bird in his cage on the floor. Sky looked ruffled, but he never told on the the cat.

More years passed. The boy went to high school and every afternoon the bird was there to greet him with a tweet when he returned home. Sometimes the boy played his piano or cello and the bird sang along. If the boy and his Mom forgot to refill Sky's food dish, that cunning parakeet would lift the edge of the dish with his beak and then let go so that the dish would bang against the side of the cage. Over and over and over again until he got what he wanted. He had great communication skills and he had his people well trained.

When the boy left for college, the bird was left with the Mom and Dad. His chirps and squawks became less frequent. Sky took longer and longer naps on his perch in the sun. He often got grumpy with mom and would nip at her fingers when she cleaned his cage. He missed his boy.

One day, Sky fell from his perch. He flapped his wings and squawked frantically. Mom reached in to the cage to calm him. When she picked him up, one foot appeared to be paralyzed. Sky calmed down when Mom set him back on his perch. A day or two later, Sky couldn't perch any more. Mom didn't know that birds could have strokes. Mom tried to make him comfortable, but she knew that sixteen years was a long time to have a little blue parakeet, not even counting how old he was before he crashed into their lives on the wind.

January 2, 2017, Gusty Sky rode the wind back to his creator. The boy doesn't know yet. He's in Russia serving as a young volunteer for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The kitchen at the boy's house is hauntingly quiet without Sky's tweets and chirps and squawks. His noises had helped the Mom adjust to the quiet the boy left behind. Noises that somehow went unnoticed until they were gone.

Rest in peace little blue bird. Watch over the boy, would you please?

Life is magnificent.

Hugs

Best Christmas Present Ever

Best Christmas Present Ever

Our family begins asking, “What would you like for Christmas this year?” in October. Several years ago, I wanted to head them off.

Our kids were all in their twenties; students, newlyweds, one with a young child, two pregnant, busy, all underemployed in various stages of poverty, but each with a giving heart. They’d want to give me a Christmas present; gift giving is a big part of the season’s fun. Telling them, “Don’t get anything for me” would hurt their feelings. Besides, I like gifts!

I don’t need more Stuff, and at this stage of life, if I see something I’d like to have, I buy it myself. What could they give me that I’d really treasure, not tuck away on a shelf? If I could come up with a wonderful, meaningful, inexpensive gift, I’d be happy; bonus points if it was a long-term idea.

I pondered for days. 

What do I value? I value my family, the Savior, travel, conversation, and the power of Story. We’d taught our young ones to tell stories since they were tiny; it's part of the fabric of our family. Stories bind us together and set us apart as people. You don’t see raccoons sitting around telling tales, do you?

That was my answer: I wanted stories! I pondered for days, and settled on these criteria: I wanted a story from each adult and literate grandchild (one, at that stage). I clearly said, “This is not a let-the-wife-handle-it-type gift.” The story was to be non-fiction, preferably a memory from their own life, it could include me, but didn’t have to, and it was to be long enough to properly to tell the story, whether that be eight pages or six lines.

In October, I sent out a mass email to all of our children and their spouses, detailing the gift I wanted. Just think, all they had to do was write a story! It’s the perfect gift---no cost, except their time, no stress or shopping, and it’d be something I would cherish. My heart smiled as I imagined reading stories for Christmas, my birthday, Mother’s Day, and onward.

I was excited to hear their responses. Instead, my email was utterly ignored. Over the weeks approaching Christmas, my broad hints were brushed aside with a sighed, “Oh, Mom, really.” My heart sunk, resigned to another lovely throw pillow or bowl.

On Christmas morning, tears flowed, but not from disappointment. While I thought my kids were ignoring me, they were conspiring. A daughter bought plastic sheet protectors. A daughter-in-law was tasked with designing a scrap-book-type cover for the optimistic-sized loose-leaf bind my son was ordered to purchase. All of them wrote a story, just for me!

The stories gave insight into family members. I learned why a daughter-in-law’s family values education so strongly, and I could feel her shock in finding her dad’s 8^th grade report card with a C+ on it, tucked in with his baseball award. Another daughter-in-law detailed the day of her engagement. I hadn’t known my son proposed to her on a cliff. As he knelt, he “accidentally” dropped the ring box into the valley a thousand feet below. As I read, I could imagine her scream echoing across the canyon, and her relief when he laughed and pulled the glittery ring from his pocket.  

My five-year-old granddaughter dictated her story, and drew a delightful, wobbly illustration of the stuffed felt chickens I had helped her sew the previous month. A son-in-law wrote of a camping trip on a sailboat in Alaska with his eleven siblings... and no running water. My daughter wrote of the things she had learned from me, her mother, and her hopes of being a good mother to her unborn child. Our son wrote of the joy he felt teaching the gospel and bolstering the sagging spirits of discouraged missionaries; in his mission, he was known as a “fixer.”

Another  son detailed memories of a family trip in which we played in the snow on a mountain, acquired sunburns in the high desert, sledded, swam, hiked through a canyon, toured an orchard and sampled new apple varieties under development, rode a ferry, visited a museum, splashed in  a waterfall, enjoyed an old-fashioned soda fountain, toured a hydroelectric dam, crossed a steel-mesh bridge on foot through an old-growth forest, climbed on a vintage train, played on a massive new playground, toured a candy factory (with samples), drove through desert, mountains, farms, forests, meadows, across rivers and valleys and canyons...all in two days. I sighed, remembering our many family vacations, most of which were just that packed. “As long as we’re nearby, we may as well see as much as we can” was an unspoken motto.

I wiped tears, I laughed, I choked up as I read each story aloud. My heartfelt response encouraged my kids: at last, they had a gift idea Mom loved! Every Christmas, birthday, and Mother’s Day since then, I’ve received a set of new stories. That optimistic-sized binder is stuffed now, as stories multiply and grandchildren grow old enough to add their own stories. On sad days, I take comfort in reading over my fat collection of stories. This truly is the best gift I could ask for.

Christmas is coming! If you love stories as much as I do, feel free to take my idea. 

The Ultimate Weapon

by Kari Diane Pike

Recent attempts to broaden my reading horizons and (guilty admission here) a search for something to binge on on Netflix because I watched every episode of Gilmore Girls and needed something to tide me over until the new episodes come out, brought my attention to a particular theme common to nearly every genre: the search for the ultimate weapon (like a super soldier) - someone or something to defend and protect from or even destroy the enemy.

They need not look any further. I encountered a real life secret weapon last Sunday. Code name: "Sunbeams". Sunbeams (for those not familiar with vocabulary from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints - Sunbeams are the children who are three-years-old, turning four) have the ability to enervate even the most experienced adult. They lure the poor patsy in with shy, dimpled smiles and coy giggles.  They peek from behind their parents' backs, wave their chubby fingers, and create a false sense acceptance. Once left alone with their common enemy,  Sunbeams synergize and zero in on their victim's greatest vulnerabilities. They take no prisoners. They paralyze and then suck their prey dry. Except for the tears. Sunbeams leave behind lots of tears. I should know. I was there. Me, a veteran mom with more than thirty-five years and nine plus more children worth of experience.

I knew I was in trouble when one of the four Sunbeams in the class declared: "Don't listen to her. Let's play pretend and I'll be the king and you can be the princesses  and the wizard and she (meaning me) can be the witch because she doesn't talk nice to us."

I had told them I was disappointed in them because they were using their outside voices and not listening to the story. I would have to talk to their parents, I said. They would be sad, I said. I guess I did lay it on a little thick. Plus, I didn't have food. Never  let yourself get trapped with Sunbeams without food or they will turn on you. Really, really fast.

I changed my tactics and we spent the rest of class time singing and playing "Button, Button, Who's Got the Button." Their parent's picked them up at the door. My husband took me to the car where I melted into a puddle of tears.

For some reason, I can't wait to go back. Maybe that's what makes them the ultimate weapon. The enemy actually wants to go back for more. I really do love those Sunbeams. Some days are easier than others. You can bet I will be better prepared from now on. I will go in armed with prayer, patience, smiles, love, and lots of snacks.

Life is magnificent!

hugs~